


as long as you're with me you'll be just fine

by portraitofwlw



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional baggage galore, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Roman turns into a hornier richard siken when gerri glances in his direction, Tom/Shiv is mentioned, Why say what you mean when you can simply stare at someone and call them names?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofwlw/pseuds/portraitofwlw
Summary: It's not going to be her, he repeats it to himself like a mantra, every cell in his body focusing on it so he doesn't fall apart.Or, the blood sacrafice from Roman's perspective.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	as long as you're with me you'll be just fine

**Author's Note:**

> hello lgbt community...and gerriroman. I have returned

He feels different when he gets back from Turkey, in an almost indescribable way, like he's aged ten years in a week. Logan had gotten him the best shrink money could buy and a week long stay at some hippie resort upstate. But even with mandatory therapy and mud baths, he doesn’t quite feel like himself, can’t make himself joke and fuck off in the same way. It’s as if he’s the addict of the family, finally sobering up and feeling the weight of the world crash down on his shoulders. He’s afraid to look in the mirror, just in case he would see wrinkles on his forehead or a grey streak in his hair. Or maybe he would see a different person entirely. 

When Kendall calls him (really he has to call the front desk of the retreat because there’s a no-phone policy in this place, like rehab) and tells him everyone is needed in Greece for an emergency meeting Roman huffs and groans and wonders how the hell they've managed to get him back on a plane across the ocean not even a week after being held hostage there. It shouldn’t be a surprise that even that wouldn’t warrant a week off, but fuck it makes him want to slam his head into a wall, or drown himself in the porcelain bathtub in his room while he stares out the floor to ceiling windows at the forest. Talk about a poetic ending: Shakespeare couldn’t write shit that good. He considers telling Kendall to fuck off and leave him alone, to make Logan call or drag him out of hiding, show that he gives enough of a shit to remember his youngest son. But he doesn't feel like himself, so he keeps his mouth shut and packs his suitcase for when the helicopter arrives. He's alone on the flight, feels every inch between him and the pilot. They could be the only two people in the world and he wouldn’t know the difference. 

He hasn’t spoken to anyone since he got back, hasn’t even turned on his phone. Kendall quickly updated him on the situation over the phone, but spared him on the gory details of the hearings and Rhea’s departure. After arguing with himself for a few minutes, Roman finally gets the motivation to check his notifications, only to be bombarded with messages from everyone from Shiv to Caroline. There’s even a message from Tabitha, who he assumed was still pissed at him, and a missed call from Gerri. That one makes his heart squeeze. He tucks the phone back into his pocket and looks out of the window. 

The closer he gets to Greece the more the nagging anxiety near the base of his skull moves forward until it's settled comfortably in between his eyes. He knows something is off, knows that once he tells his Dad the private money is horseshit everything will crumble. The cruise line is looking more and more like the bloodbath it always has been. He’s flying to a funeral, but he’s not sure whose it is yet. 

Karl and Jamie join him at the docks, the three of them a perfect package of safely returned goods. _No need to worry here!_ They both look a little worse for wear, Karl especially, and Roman can't really blame him. The bruise on his back is an ever present dull ache, and he still hasn't slept enough to get rid of the tired, stressed look hiding under his moisturized skin. The boat ride is mostly silent, only Jamie tries to make small talk, but even he gives up when neither Karl nor Roman seem to be in the mood. It’s a somber affair, and Roman is savoring the time he has before the world picks up again and he’s thrust into the ever present storm of issues at Waystar Royco. They seem to be one of the last ones to arrive, save Logan of course, who always needs to make a grand entrance. Everyone is huddled near the edge of the ship where they'll be dropped off: Kendall, Shiv, Tom, Greg, Connor, Willa, Frank, Gerri, all awaiting their arrival. 

When they do land it's just as he expected, but less than he hoped for. Shiv and Kendall joke around with him, and he can see right through their thinly veiled comedy that they’re relieved he's back. It still pisses him off though. _Why can't we be serious for one fucking second, why can't you just sit and let things be bad and scary without joking about it? Did you cry when you found out I was in trouble? Did you want to? Won’t you spare me a comforting glance?_ Gerri jokes too, which bothers him even more. He's the pot calling the kettle black, the king of inappropriately timed jokes, but he's a hypocrite too, like everyone else, and the jokes hurt. So he dulls the mood a bit to let everyone know he's pissed and exhausted and worn the fuck out. Only after does he play along, joking about Karl because he doesn't have the energy to keep the mood where he wants it, and at least when he’s making them, the jokes aren’t about him.

It’s like he’s trying to fit into a suit that’s years old, a second skin that’s grown too tight. He squeezes him in all the wrong places now, feels less like a comforting hug and more like a boa constrictor. He’s sure he’ll fit it again soon, once he can compartmentalize everything and shave off the parts of him that stick out awkwardly. Then he can be his old self, the boy who makes jokes and snide comments to avoid taking anything seriously. 

Gerri’s joke sticks with him more than he wants to admit, and he likes letting his frustration fester a bit so he can feel something other than devotion to her for a few minutes, even though he knows the second she looks at him again he’ll melt in her hands. He’s her goddamn lap dog, and he can’t blame her for it, can’t even blame himself because he enjoys it so much. 

The next hour is a blur. He avoids Gerri for a while-- just because he can’t look at her without wanting to be disgustingly sincere, and he hasn’t tired of being mad yet-- so he tries to spend time with his siblings. All that results from that is him wanting to jump overboard a little more than when he first arrived. He’s supposed to be the fun one, the one who doesn’t want to take anything seriously, they’re supposed to be the hardasses. He doesn’t like the role reversal. 

Logan arrives not long after, to a roarous applause and a slew of hellos, even though his helicopter had felt more like a thunderstorm rolling in and stifling everyone than a cause for celebration. He’s god. He’s the real rockstar. He’s the puppeteer of it all, and they’re scrambling to stay in his favor, be the toy he can’t part from. He pats Roman on the cheek where he slapped him a few weeks ago, gives him a one over and tells him he’s glad Roman is okay, but it feels more insincere than the greeting he’d gotten earlier. What Logan really wants-- and Roman knows this, is to talk about the money. That’s all they are, walking dollar signs. So he lets Logan pull him inside to have a business meeting. Welcome home. 

Jamie tries to bullshit Logan, tries to convince him that the foreign money is stable enough to count on even though it's not. Roman knows it’ll fall through even though he’s been in business for the same amount of time Jamie has had grey hair. It’s not rocket science, this is ECON 101, and Roman may not have gotten into Harvard of his own volition, but he did attend the odd class or two. So he tells his Dad that it’s not going to work. Thankfully Karl backs him up, even with Jamie breathing down both of their necks, because without him he looks like the incompetent son all over again. Jamie storms off in a huff, and Logan doesn’t spare Roman another glance when he gets up and goes outside to watch him leave. 

Not long after, Logan makes the announcement: someone’s head is ending up on a spike. 

Roman spends the next twenty minutes drifting around Gerri until he can’t make any more excuses about just wanting another drink or needing sun or being tired. He’s mostly done being angry with her, and the taste of his stubbornness isn’t awful as it slides down his throat. Finally he flops down on the chair next to hers and immediately feels more at ease than he had in days. She’s reading, so he lets his gaze trail up and down her body, taking in the classic rich yacht outfit every woman in her tax bracket owns. She makes it look better than all of them combined. Out of nowhere she asks him who he thinks is going to be blamed and he says Frank, makes a joke at his expense and drags Karl into it because the more the merrier. They flounder around like fish out of water and it's too good an opportunity to pass up. _“We’re real people Roman.”_ Karl says, and Roman doesn’t miss the irony in the statement. _“You're not. You claim to be real, but you're not. Look at you, look at you.”_ He’s joking when he says it, but there’s truth there. What really matters is he makes Gerri laugh, lifts a fraction of the stifling weight in her lungs. That made everyone else's pain worth it. He wouldn't tell her what he was really thinking: _not you, it's going to be anyone but you Gerri._

Then Logan sits them all down at the table, tells them it's time for breakfast despite the fact that nobody feels like eating. They all know they have personal boulders swinging over their heads and that makes it hard to focus on anything else. Roman simply orders a smoothie, can’t stomach anything richer than that, because the anxiety that was stuck in between his eyes has moved to his stomach. It turns out to be a good choice because once the conversation picks up he can barely even bring himself to put the straw in between his lips.

It’s not going to be her. He repeats this to himself over and over again because it feels like a lifeboat. If he still believed in God like he did as a kid, he would pray too; even though he doesn’t believe in God he’ll pray. Just in case, like he’s in an airplane about to crash. It’s not going to be her. He won’t let it happen. 

It’s Kendall who first brings her up as an option for the blood sacrifice, said there was nothing personal when that didn't fucking matter, the lack of a personal vendetta wouldn't reduce her sentence, and Roman has half the mind to reach across the table and punch him. He’d deserve it too, the daddy’s boy turned traitor coke addict. Roman decides that for the rest of the day he hates him. Maybe tomorrow too. Then Frank jumps in and then Karl, and the world seems to be crumbling before his very eyes. Gerri-- who has never seemed anything but completely concrete and stable-- looks wild behind the eyes, and for one fleeting moment Roman really thinks that’s it. So of course he says something, he couldn’t stop himself from defending her if he tried. His muscles simply do it, as if it’s an automatic response, simple as blinking. 

She looks surprised when he defends her, as if there was any other option for him. He would always be in her corner; there was nowhere else for him to be, nowhere else he would even consider. If she questioned his loyalty to her before, she shouldn’t now, not when he pivots the blame to Tom, not when he throws his sister into the shark pool too. It could be anyone else going to the dogs. When he thought that, he’d meant it. He’d take five years in jail before he let her step near one. He would throw his siblings under the bus to keep her safe. He doesn’t care that it would raise questions about the nature of their relationship, that it might cause a whole slew of issues for them both in the near future, because the thought of Gerri in some kind of orange jumpsuit (is that what they really wear in prison? He doesn’t know.) makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He’s willing to let every bit of the world crumble except the spot under her feet. 

The fuss he causes is enough because the attention shifts off of Gerri and Logan stops eyeing her like the beloved dog he’s about to go out back and shoot, but Roman still can’t get a good breath into his lungs. When they all start to disperse it feels less like the worst of everything is over, and more like it’s only just begun. 

Roman decides he needs to get off of this yacht, needs to get as far away as possible from his family. There’s one boat left, the other two are still out from taking Jamie and Naomi back to the mainland. He doesn’t want to go alone, needs to take Gerri with him, like he has no object permanence and if she leaves his sight she’ll disappear. But she’s not on the main deck anymore, so Roman has to go searching for her. He looks on the lower deck, in the dining room and the sitting rooms and even looks in the water, although he can’t imagine her swimming. He can’t fucking find her anywhere, so he resigns himself to going out alone. When he gets back up to the main deck though, the boat is already riding off with a very familiar head of red hair perched on its deck. He gives the receding shape the finger. 

Left with nothing to do and not wanting to get sucked into Karl and Frank’s mind numbing conversation about golf, Roman resumes his search for Gerri. He manages to goade a cleaning lady into getting a master key, and decides to head to the lower deck to wait for her in her room. He should’ve given up by now, but he won’t. A glimpse of her was worth hours spent looking and waiting around.

She’s not in her room either. Once he unlocks the door all he’s greeted by is a neatly made bed and an unopened suitcase in the middle of the floor. The room is practically identical to his just down the hall, but it feels better, being here rather than in his own room. He’s not sure, but he thinks there’s more sunlight in here, because everything here has a slight glow to it. Being in her room is almost like being with her, and touching the things she touches is an intimacy in and of itself, so he stays. There’s a spacious balcony on the far wall, and Roman throws open the french doors to let in some of the open air into the room. It helps his newly developed minor claustrophobia, a temporary affliction the doctor assured, a common response to trauma. Roman had laughed when he said that. You’d think his body would be used to trauma by now. 

He’s sprawled out on her bed when she comes in the room, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. If he hears her come in, he doesn’t say anything, and for a second Gerri wonders if he’s asleep. 

“Get off my bed.” 

She knows he’s awake now, because he groans and starts to roll off the mattress, being as dramatic as possible. She rolls her eyes, scoffing at his child-like behavior, assuming that when he gets to the edge he’ll swing his legs out and stand up. But he doesn’t, instead he rolls straight off and hits the floor with a solid _thud_ , thankfully missing the sharp corner of the nightstand. He winces on impact, and Gerri mirrors him a second later. 

“Roman, are you serious right now?”

“Hey, I was just hostaged-” His voice is still muffled from being pressed against the carpet. 

“ _Hostaged_?”

“Yeah, hostaged, so you should be a little nicer to me. I could’ve come to this party in a body bag.” 

It’s not a funny joke, he knows it isn’t, and Gerri’s silence is enough to make him feel a little guilty for saying it. 

“Get up, come on.” Gerri walks over to where he’s still face down on the carpet.

He pulls himself back up onto his feet, eye level with Gerri now, and she can see that the bags under his eyes are more pronounced than before. It’s the first real good look at him she’s gotten today, and she notices he looks a little older, more serious, if that’s even possible for him. 

“What are you here for? How did you even get in?” She asks him. 

“If you’re asking if I’m trying to seduce you, I jerked off in your bathroom before you came in so I need at least fifteen minutes before I’m ready to go.” He flashes her a grin. It’s a lie, but it feels comfortable to say. 

“I hope you at least had the decency to clean up after yourself. Then I’d know military school was good for teaching you some manners, if nothing else.”

A glint appears in his eye, and the chance to turn this into something serious is slipping away. He’s jammed himself back into his old suit, operating like the past two weeks hadn’t happened. He’ll make himself fit for Gerri, will even enjoy the squeeze. They’re constantly teetering between tender and horny, one step away from tumbling in one direction at all times. 

“You know, I’m glad you’re okay.” 

It’s her last ditch effort to steer things into a more meaningful direction without showing her hand too much. She feels raw after the beating at the breakfast table. It seems to work though, because the glint in Roman’s eye dims a bit and he looks older again. 

“Shiv and Tom took the boat.” 

“What?” 

“I was trying to find you so I could ask if you wanted to take a boat out or something, I don’t fucking know, but anyway my lovely sister needed some marriage counseling and she took it out from under my nose. That’s why I’m here.” 

“So you decided the next best thing was breaking into my room”

“Naturally.” He’s helping himself to some gin from the minifridge in the corner. “I tried looking for you first, but you were nowhere to be found.” 

“I went to call Karolina. Since there’s no reception, I had to use the ship's phone. We needed to talk strategy.” She doesn't fully understand why Karolina isn't on the death cruise in the first place. Not that she necessarily wants her to have to deal with this shit, but she is highly competent and level headed unlike 90% of the people on this boat, and that might help her keep her sanity.

“Strategy?”

“About how we’re going to deal with the shit storm incoming.” 

Roman feels a little put out. Karolina isn’t on this ship for a reason, she isn’t in line for the guillotine, why should Gerri call _her_ first? He knows why, rationally; it’s not as if he would have much in the way of advice to give Gerri in all this, but it still makes him want to grumble and pout. 

“Roman, stop looking at me like a kicked puppy. She’s the head of PR, don’t be an idiot.” 

She always knows what he’s thinking, and knows when to smack some shape into him, metaphorically of course. 

“Shut up, I wasn’t looking at you like anything, you need a prescription update.”

Gerri scoffs at him, and takes the half full glass of gin from his hands and drains it. 

“I doubt your doctor would love the idea of you day drinking right now.” She says, wiping her lip. 

Roman can't help but follow the movement with his eyes, even though he knows Gerri can plainly see it. 

“Fuck my doctor, what does he know.” He says, but doesn’t attempt to take the glass back from her. 

“More than you do.” She sits down on the couch against the wall, setting the glass down next to her. 

“I’m perfectly fine, that’s what he told me.”

She scoffs at him, almost angry all of the sudden. 

“Well it’s not like any of us would’ve known that, considering you dropped off the face of the Earth for a few days.” 

“I was at the retreat thing-- no phones allowed, you know? Hippie shit.”

“You want me to believe you couldn’t get a phone if you wanted? The one thing you’re good at is annoying people into giving you what you want!” 

“Oh fuck you.” He sneers, but his eyes look hurt. 

“Roman--” she pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s got a headache, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It would’ve just been nice to hear from you. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry too--" he mumbles, "I guess, I wasn’t ready to talk to everyone again or whatever. You’re all so... _much_.” He gestures with his hands for emphasis. “Not _you_ but everyone else. You know?”

She just stares at him, waiting for him to talk himself out of the hole he’s digging. 

“Do you want to go outside? I’m suffocating in here.” 

He sits down in one of the lounge chairs looking out onto the water, thinking maybe he’ll catch a glimpse of someone making a fool of themselves on another deck or a passing boat. Gerri sits next to him, her book in hand. The sun on his face feels nice, and the sound of the waves against the hull of the boat is surprisingly relaxing. Before he’s aware of what’s happening, he’s falling asleep.

By the time he comes to the sun is lower in the sky, nearly setting on the horizon. Gerri is sitting across from him, not saying anything, just looking at him. Hypocrite. She can stare at him all she wants but he can’t stare at her? Eventually he manages to open his eyes fully and waves at her, fluttering his fingers as he does so.

“Did I wake you up?” 

“No, and I probably shouldn’t be napping anyway. It’s the jetlag.”

He checks his phone for the time, hoping he hadn’t spent too long sleeping. It’s almost 5pm, close to two hours since he came outside. 

“You should’ve woken me up earlier.”

“You’re much quieter when you sleep.” She says, looking back down at her book. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks her for the second time that day. That’s probably more times than he’d asked her in his entire life. 

She lets out a long sigh. 

“Still anxious. Tense.” 

“You shouldn’t be scared.” He says it simply, like it's obvious. 

“Well not all of us are family Roman, I don’t have the same security as you.” She can’t help the anger that creeps into her voice. She’s resentful of everything he has, just a little bit.

“It’s not going to be you.” Again, he leaves no room for question. 

“It might be Rome.” 

“I’m not going to let that fucking happen. I’ll sink this boat and get rid of all the lifeboats before it’s you. Nobody will get out alive it’ll be the fucking Titanic.” He can't bear to look at her as he says it, it's too vulnerable.

The statement sits heavy in the air. 

"Roman, look at me."

He forces himself to turn his head and look at her dead in the eyes. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” He says it with as much sincerity as he can muster even though it would be infinitely easier to make a joke or lighten the mood, because he doesn’t want her to think she owes him for this. For the first time in years he doesn’t want anything in return, just wants to keep her here. This isn’t an exchange. It’s a gift. 

“It’s almost time for dinner, we should probably go up soon.” She says gently, slowly, putting this moment in her pocket and saving it for later.

He has half the mind to skip dinner altogether, to avoid the situation he’s in for just a little while longer. But Gerri is giving him the no nonsense look that she’s used for as long as he can remember, so eventually he drags himself away from her and goes to his room to throw on a fresh shirt and splash some water on his face so at least he can _look_ a little less sick before the last supper. 

Only a few other people are seated when he comes up on the deck. He sits down in a spot near the end of the table, secluded from most everyone else because the last thing he wants right now is to make small talk. Shiv says hello once she notices he’s there, but she’s clearly not paying attention to him. She’s lost in thought and sitting across from Tom, who she’s pointedly not making eye contact with either. There’s an air of shame around her that Roman hasn’t felt since they were teenagers and Logan had discovered her “sleepovers” with her best friend were a little more than that. It concerns him a bit, but he brushes it off as some stupid marital issue. Caroline had been right, less than a year was the timer on that sacred union.

Gerri comes up onto the deck a few minutes later, donning a new red blouse, her hair loosely framing her face. She somehow found the time to straighten it so it’s lost the curl that had crept into it since the morning. She gives him a tiny smile, really more of just a quirk of her lips, and slides into the seat next to him. He doesn’t dare speak to her, not while the rest of the table is so tersely silent, and nobody else seems to want to break the quiet either, so they all just wait for the remaining guests to trickle in. Kendall and Logan are the only ones missing, which should have been the moment he realized what was happening. 

Instead, when Logan comes out with his hand on Kendall’s shoulder-- he only seems to touch Kendall-- and says _“I’ve made my decision,”_ Roman can’t believe what he’s hearing. _“Kendall?”_ He replies, in disbelief, and his brother smiles at him, which is the worst thing he’s ever seen. The rest of the table seems just as shocked, Connor’s gaping like an idiot, Greg’s eyes are wide, Shiv looks like she might burst into tears, and Frank, Karl, and Gerri all sit dumbfounded. Kendall slides into the seat across from him, and Roman can’t help but lean in and ask if he’s okay. This is fucked up, even for Logan. Roman's hands are shaking a little when he tries to take a bite of the food that’s been placed in front of him and even though he hasn’t eaten all day he doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore. Logan announces he’s the new COO, all by himself this time, but Roman can’t help but feel like he’s betraying Kendall by benefitting from his death. The look that Gerri gives him, filled with pride, is more of a reward than the position itself. 

Nobody stays at the table longer than they have to. Once the entrees are cleared (nobody seems to be in the mood for dessert) everyone stands up and heads somewhere else, all giving Kendall a sympathetic look as they leave. Roman is one of the last people there, save Greg, Gerri, and Kendall, but before he can open his mouth to ask Kendall what the fuck is going on, Kendall is telling him to go get a good night’s rest. It’s a poorly hidden, _"please leave me alone,"_ and Roman wants to protest, but Gerri puts a hand on his knee and he knows he should let this one rest. 

She gets up a second later and softly says goodnight to Kendall in a subtle show of comfort that he’s not sure if he’s jealous of or weirdly proud of, because he’s got the attention of the best person on this entire fucking boat. He follows her lead and gets up too, not really caring if cousin Greg and Kendall see him leave with her. They’re both too wrapped up in their thoughts to notice them much anyway. As he’s leaving Roman squeezes Kendall’s shoulder, a gesture he hopes is comforting. Kendall was always the touchy one of the family, but maybe that’s changed since they were kids. 

The deck is lit up with soft yellow bulbs, and Roman can’t help but to notice how it reflects off Gerri’s hair to make her look softer than normal. Less stone cold killer bitch and more southern belle sitting on her porch. She could fit in there, he thinks. Among the willows and the peaches and the handkerchiefs used to dab at your neck. The thought of her with a southern accent though, is enough to make a laugh bubble up in his chest. She looks over her shoulder at him, one eyebrow quirked upwards. He waves it off, but can’t get the warmth out of his chest at the idea of her doing something as simple as baking biscuits or whatever else they do there. 

She leads them back to her room, isn’t sick of him yet apparently, which surprises him. She lets him follow her in without a word, walking straight out onto the balcony again. He can see through the glass that she presses the palm of her hands against her eyes and takes a long, deep breath. He waits a moment, until she’s seemingly collected herself, to follow her out. 

They’re standing against the railing, and it’s too dark to see the waves or the deck below them, the only light illuminating the space flooding in from the overhead lamp in Gerri’s room. It’s just as warm as the lighting on the deck, but a little dimmer. Things are so dark around them that it's almost like they're the only people in the universe, floating slowly through space together. 

She’s looking at him and he’s looking at her, and all of the sudden it's almost painful for him to be standing there and not touching her. But he can’t bring himself to reach out, even to graze her skin, to feel the material of her blouse. There’s plexiglass an inch thick between them; he might as well still be behind the door with her a hundred feet from him, looking beautiful and far away. 

Something must show on his face because Gerri’s brow creases and she cocks her head to the side. Roman wonders briefly if she can read his mind or something, because this is honestly a little ridiculous. Maybe he’s just see through to her. The wind has blown a piece of her hair out of place and he wants so badly to tuck it behind her ear. 

“Are you alright?” She’s the one to ask it this time.

She puts a hand on his lower back, trying to ground him for a second, and he flinches, noticeably. It’s a shock to the system, her touch, and she just so happens to land exactly where the ugly bruise is on his skin. She jolts her hand away and turns her head to look at him. 

“Turns out being nudged along by the butt of a gun is much less exhilarating and more painful than I thought.” Is all he offers as an explanation. He can’t take the sincerity too much longer or he’ll do something crazy like hug her or kiss her or tuck her fucking hair behind her fucking ear. She’s glad he turns away from her after that because she can’t hide the look of pure concern on her face, with none of the strength and severity she’s known for. Without thinking she puts her hand higher up, near his shoulder, just to make sure he's still there. 

The moment she’d found out he was being held in Turkey rushes back to her. The shock, the anger, the overwhelming fear that had choked her. She had been in her hotel room, and it had been Kendall who called her, sounding gruff, maybe from sleep, maybe from alcohol burning his throat all night long. She was irrationally pissed that it wasn’t Logan who had called her, that she hadn’t immediately been clued in, but the feeling quickly subsided when the words “uncertain situation” “hostages” “turmoil” “hostile” and “thought you should know” were used. Like Roman had died or something. She realized she hadn’t said a word for the entire call, so she forced out an, “Okay. Thank you,” and hung up. She then proceeded to pace a marathon around her hotel room, get herself a little too buzzed, and read every article on the situation she could possibly find. She didn't want to cry, she wanted to _do_ something. It wasn’t all that surprising, how upset she was, but it made her attachment more concrete. She really fucking wanted Roman to be okay, didn’t understand why it was always him who had the carpet yanked out from under him. Out of everyone in the Roy family, he probably deserved it the least. Even if they all kinda deserved it. 

“Rome.” She says to draw his eyes back to hers. The moon is full and reflecting on the water, giving the entire sky a glow, and he’s got a joint he’s pulled from his pocket dangling from his lips like a wannabe James Dean. He must have grabbed it before dinner. She snags it away from him and takes a drag. 

“Hey!” He starts to protest, but she cuts him off.

“Don’t be greedy.” She blows the smoke out into the air and hands it back. “It’s good that you’re okay. I’m glad you are.” It’s a little clunky coming out of her mouth, Roman isn’t the only one who could probably benefit from some emotional counselling. 

“You know me, Mr. fucking Invincible or whatever. Superman. I wasn’t going to let a little political uprising take me out.” 

The hand that she’s got resting on his shoulder moves upwards so she can run her fingers through his hair. It’s surprisingly soft. She’d expected it to be more greasy and unkempt, but Roman seems to be surprising her quite a bit lately. 

“Be quiet for once. I’m serious.” She looks him in the eye. “Don’t make me collect you in a body bag, ever. That’s one mess of yours I won’t clean up.” 

He wants to cry. This is what he wanted. Someone to take it seriously, to sit him down and force feed him sincerity from a plastic bottle. _Won’t you spare me a comforting glance?_ Well she’s got care pouring out of her eyes. 

They sit like that for a while, her hand on his neck, playing with the tufts of hair at the base of his scalp that are a bit too long. They sit until the joint is burnt out and the clouds start to cover the moon and Roman’s stomach starts to growl. Gerri orders them room service and he eats it perched on the arm of her couch, the french doors still flung open to let the cool air in, this time with the screen closed because Gerri can’t stand the mosquitoes. He can vaguely hear the sounds of music playing from one of the upper decks. She turns on the tv to a random channel broadcasting what seems to be the news, all in greek, and then turns it off after a second when they find the silence is preferable. 

He doesn't want to go back to his room. Partially because he hasn't exactly been sleeping well, mostly because he just doesn't want to be alone. It'd be a hassle to try and convince Gerri to let him sleep here, on her floor or something, but it might be worth it so he doesn't have to be alone again. He could play up the hostage thing, could guilt trip her for earlier, only one of which he'd ever do. Really he just wants to know she's nearby. 

It makes him feel kind of fucking pathetic, like a puppy with separation anxiety, a little boy with abandonment issues. But not pathetic enough that he'd rather leave. He’s about to ask her if he can stay when she turns to the minifridge and offers him a drink. 

“I thought you said I shouldn’t be drinking.” 

“I said not to day drink. Look outside Roman, it’s not day anymore.”

She’s right, it’s probably close to one in the morning, way past when he knows she’d normally be asleep. 

She pours them both healthy glasses of whiskey, her favorite, and settles in an armchair. It doesn’t seem like she’ll be asking him to leave anytime soon, and it’s more than a small relief. They talk about management training and the company and her daughters and whatever else they can think of that’s appropriate and not too emotional that it’ll strike a chord with either of them, until Roman can feel his eyelids start to droop. 

“Get up.” Gerri nudges him with her foot until he stands. “Go brush your teeth, there’s an extra toothbrush under the sink.” 

He finds the brush even in his drowsy haze, and begins getting ready for bed. A minute later Gerri appears in the doorway, bumping him to the side so she can brush her teeth too. Their eyes meet in the mirror and Roman pulls his toothbrush out to speak. 

“If everything goes under, we can still get married, you know. Or run off to fucking Russia or something, or Argentina.” 

Gerri spits and rinses her mouth before replying. 

“I’m not moving to fucking Russia, Rome. Maybe Italy.”

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if this is kind of mediocre, I couldn't bear to keep it in my google docs for another day. Comments, as always, are massively appreciated xx


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